


bullets

by BitterlySpiteful



Series: Above [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, M/M, Magic, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-10-22 13:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17663306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitterlySpiteful/pseuds/BitterlySpiteful
Summary: war smells of honey and metal, baki comes to find. war, also, isn't solely out on the battlefield.Two-shot for the Above Series





	1. claw your way to heaven

Everyone knows not to go outside at night. Not to breathe a word after sunset. Seal the windows, lock the doors, huddle inside, and wait for morning.

 _Do not_ leave your house.

She stumbles along in the cold, the rules repeating over and over in her head. Her eyes are only partially trained ahead of her, but for the most part, she's watching the horizon through the city buildings, watching the sun sink lower and lower, watching as it blazes the sky in gold and pink. Her breath comes in ragged puffs, fogging the air in front of her. She nervously picks up her pace, starting into a jog. 

A few other angels glance at her as she passes them. Those without wings on are already almost home, the metal limbs unneeded since they live in the city's mazes. It's difficult to fly here, anyway.

But she's young. Only halfway into her second decade, and she can't get her wings yet. So she's grounded, at least for another few years.

Entering a shadow cast by one of the taller skyscrapers, she shudders and pulls her coat closer, tugging her striped scarf over her nose. She reaches up and pulls out her ponytail, hoping it might help keep her warm. Her hair tumbles down around her shoulders and she glances around warily. It's not  _proper_ for her to be walking alone, much less with her hair down. Any angel that would see her would assume she's up for marriage, and- Hell, she's way too young to even think about that.

Speeding up once again, she quickly exits the building's shadow, letting out a thankful sigh when she sees that the city buildings are starting to dwindle, shorten. She's maybe another hour from home, but it's closer than she originally thought.

She's maybe twenty minutes from her parent's house when the sun finally dips fully below the ocean, casting everything into stark darkness, except for the tiniest smear of pale blue. The stars above her are her only light; the moon is new, and dark, just a curved slice in the black expanse. Fear shivering down her spine, she turns in a full circle, biting back her urge to call out, to see if there's anyone there that could help her.

But the second rule is banging around in her head,  _do not make noise_. Do not vocalize. No humming, whispering,  _nothing_.

She knows the stories.

Pulling her scarf tighter, she hurries on, continuously looking over her shoulder. She  _knows_ she shouldn't have stayed out so late. But she had originally planned to stay at her friend's, but then his parents had come home early. They hadn't wanted her staying and had sent her on her way. She had been tempted to rest at an inn for the night, but fear of her parents' worrying made her move on. 

And now she's in the dark, alone, with dead silence around her.

She slows down, the clicking of her shoes on the cobblestone making her worry that she might be causing too much noise. There's  _nothing_ out here, except for her. No birds, crickets, just  _nothing_.

That's the first warning sign.

She ignores it. Breaking into a run, she tells herself that she'll be home soon, that nothing will happen. 

But just as she's rounding the second to last corner, to the street where her house is, she hears it.

Footsteps.

Whirling around, she bites her tongue so she won't make any noise. Her eyes dart around, wide, terrified. But the footsteps are gone as if they were never there. She uneasily tells herself that it had only been her imagination, or maybe some snow falling from the trees because of the wind. Or an animal out in the woods somewhere. 

She bends down and takes her shoes off, knowing that socks make much less noise. Her toes suffer from the cold because of it, but she  _knows_ she can't make any noise.

A noise starts behind her, making her blood run cold. All too aware of the thundering of her hearts, she hurries on, not daring to glance back. Something is  _watching_ her. She knows something is there, staring at her as she runs. She can't shake the feeling, even when she turns into someone's yard, to get off the road. Maybe she'll be able to lose whoever it is.

Branches whip past her, snatching her hair and clothes. She trips over something sharp and stumbles, scraping her knees on teh ground. Biting back tears, she quickly looks around, gooseflesh rising when she realizes something is still  _after_ her. She hears footsteps coming her way, quickly and carefully dodging branches and trip-overs. She scrambles to her feet, forgetting her shoes in her haste. She runs, and runs, not even knowing where she's going anymore. She just knows she has to get away, or get inside. She glances left, and right, but there aren't any lights of houses. She's out in the woods, alone, and-

And something grabs her ankle.

She falls with a scream, scrambling backward. That's when she sees it.

Its face is horrifyingly simple, like a doll's face sewn with buttons for eyes. The two white orbs staring down at her, the lipless smile stretching most of the way around its face. Stringy, oily black hair hangs down in long strands.

It stands on all fours, taller than any angel she's ever seen. It's head twists sideways, regarding her. And its grin grows wider, revealing only a bit of the glistening, yellow-grey teeth in its maw.

She screams, turning onto her hands and knees, and tries to get up to run. It grabs her leg again, lightning-quick, striking before she even has a chance to take two steps. She hits the ground, her scarf fluttering and getting caught on a branch. She claws at the dirt and mud, but then-

"It yanks her away!"

His little sister screams, hiding under her pillows. He, himself, is sitting, trembling in his socks, clutching onto his old stuffed horse. "Wh- What is it?" his sister whimpers. 

"It's a  _shifter_ , Mal" their mom hisses, hiding giggles as she waggles her fingers at them. Baki shrinks back. "An angel by day, a horrible, cannibal monster at night."

"It  _ates_ her?" Mal squeaks, squirming closer to Baki. 

"Ripped her apart with its teeth, and used her bones as  _toothpicks_!" Baki flinches back when their mom lunges forward, hands shaped like claws. "And in the morning... Nothing else was found, except for her scarf, and her shoes."

He's heard this story many, many times before. But Mal had recently been wanting to play outside for longer, later into the night, when kids should be back inside, eating supper. So, just like the time when  _he'd_ done that, his mom had pulled out the Shifter story.

It still creeps him out, even though he's sixteen. Mal, though, at the younger age of four, has never heard it before. She looks toward the window. "So, if- if we outside late-"

"The shifters will get you," Baki hisses in her ear, and pokes at her sides. She screams and swats at him, turning on her back to kick. The glass of water on the bedtable starts rattling, but he ignores it. He laughs and tackles her, play-fighting until their mom picks him up by the scruff and pulls him away. 

"Now, you won't go outside so late, will you?" she asks, setting him down at the foot of the bed, away from little clawing fingers and the ever-lasting urge to wrestle. 

"No!" Mal squirms under the blankets. "No, never!"

"Good." Their mom pinches her nose, wiggling it slightly. "Now, get some sleep, honey. You've got a big day, tomorrow. Your father and I are going to be going out of town for a bit, so my friend Toko is going to be taking care of you. Does that sound fun?"

 _No,_ Baki wanted to say. But Mal nods vigorously and flops back into her pillows. As his mom is saying goodnight to her, he slides off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold tile. He gathers up his horse from the bed and quickly pads to his own room.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, he sits there for a moment, staring down at the horse. Like most carriage-drawn horses, it has eight eyes, with a braided mane and horns down its back. Well, okay, it has seven eyes now, since he ate one when he was really little. But still, it's the thought that counts.

He glances up as the shadow of his father passes into Mal's room to say goodnight wishes. He frowns and glances towards his desk, where a small bowl of water always sits.  _All_ his family has water-based magic... Mom helps with the boilers in part of the city that run most of the engines. His dad creates forever-lakes, that refill on their own and wind across islands. Mal is already showing signs of being able to move water, as well, but...

He hasn't. 

He raises a hand toward the bowl, the other one still clutching his horse. Baki crooks his fingers and tries to  _pull_ , but nothing happens. Frustrated, he throws his hand down on the bed, scowling.

"Baki?"

"Mom," he says, tucking his legs up on the bed, "I... When will I get my magic?"

She looks taken aback for a second, still standing in the doorway. "Honey, it..."

"Don't  _tell_ me it doesn't matter. All the kids in my class already have magic, and I... I don't." He stuffs his face into his horse's mane, expecting what she'll say next.

And, just like every time he brings it up, she sits down, putting a hand on his shoulder, then pulling him into a hug. He lets her but stubbornly clings to the horse. "Oh, babe, I've told you not to worry about it. It'll come in eventually. Hey, maybe it won't even be water, huh? And besides, the longer it takes, the more  _special_ it will be."

He looks up at her, looking into her bright blue eyes. He knows his eyes are weird. A dark, brown-red and that  _scares_ him. Red is metal and earth, and brown is disease and plague. It's not a good combination. His parents know it. He knows it. Even his classmates know it. But nobody's said  _anything_. Because as long as he doesn't show his magic, it means he doesn't have any. It means that his eye color doesn't  _matter_.

Coupled with his white hair, and frail bones and muscles, it... It isn't looking up for him.

"Don't worry, honey," she says, and pulls him forward by the back of his head to kiss his cheek. She puts her forehead against his, and smiles gently. "I bet you'll be so very, very important and strong when you grow up. I just  _know_ it."

[...]

Toko doesn't care when Mal's bedtime is. So while Baki is in his room, trying to study for school, trying to figure out this language homework, she comes rushing up and around, bouncing on his bed like a sugar-crazed monkey. She speaks jibberish, yelling his name on occasion, but he just sighs and tries to block her out. Somewhere downstairs, Toko is helping himself to a couple of Dad's beers and making an utter mess of the Ka Lua table. The tiles will all be messed up, and Baki will probably be blamed...

Eventually, when Mal comes over to start tugging at his hair, he snaps and pushes her away with a hard shove. "Go away, Mal! I'm trying to  _work_!"

"Ma and Da ain't here!" she screams, and Baki winces at the loud noise. "You don't owe me!"

"Own," he corrects under his breath, turning back to his homework.

But then Mal is scrambling up his desk chair, tugging on his ears and hair, and with a growl, he stands up and shakes her off. He whips around towards her and she  _screams_ -

He stops. She's never looked  _scared_ because of him before. It makes him take a few steps back, then he kneels down and says, "Hey, Mal, I wasn't gonna hurt you, okay? I just- I just need some alone time right now, and..."

She's still shaking, staring at something that isn't on his face. He glances down, and-

And sees very sharp, very long claws on his fingertips.

He raises his hands up, turning them over, back and forth, trying to get rid of that uneasy feeling in his stomach. "Mal, you- You need to go to your room."

She quickly scrambles to her feet and runs out, slamming the door behind her. He flinches at the slam and gets to his feet, still staring down at the- his claws. He curls his fingers and they click together. Maybe a dozen centimeters long, and  _sharp_. 

Slowly shaking his head, Baki looks around the room, then grabs for the pair of scissors nearby. He sets the blades over one of the claws, looking at the glossy white color, and then quickly snaps down on it.

Pain blossoms in his finger and he hisses, grabbing for his fingertip. Blood is dripping down off of it, staining his other hand. COnfused, he glances over at the clipped nail, finding that there must have been flesh or something inside it. Maybe like a dog's claws. Worry again bites at him. If he can't just clip them off, then what is he going to  _do_ -

But when he curls his hand into a fist again, they don't click together. They don't poke at his palm. He glances down sharply to find that they're gone. Even the bleeding has stopped. The only evidence it was ever there is the blood and the claw clipping sitting on his floor.

With shaking hands, he grabs it, turning it over. On a second look, it's like... It looks like bone. Not like a claw, but an actual  _bone_ that should have been  _inside_ his body. 

Feeling sick to his stomach, he picks up the scissors and heads to the washroom. He hurries to wash them and his hands off, then grabs a towel and wets it so he can dab up the blood spots on his floor.

Okay, so, maybe it was just- Maybe it didn't actually happen. Maybe he's- Seeing things, or something. Maybe he didn't sleep enough last night. That would make sense. He was up pretty late, so...

But as he passes Mal's room on his way back, he hears a whimper, and a shadow moves away from the crack of the door. He hesitates, hand going to the doorknob. After a second, he pushes it open with a slight knock. "Hey, Mal? Everything's alright, okay?"

The moment he steps into her room, she screams and darts under the bed, squeezing herself into the corner. He gently sits down on the floor at the foot of her bed, deciding to be patient with this. "Look, see? My hands are fine now. It must have just- Just been a trick of the light, or something, okay?"

Wide blue eyes inch closer to him. He cranes his neck down and gives her what he's hoping is a comforting smile. Waving his hand slowly to show her that the claws are gone, he says, "See? Nothing really happened."

Finally, Mal crawls out. "You sure?"

"Yeah. See? I'm just me, Mally." He opens his arms and she crawls over, hugging him tightly. 

"Was scared you're shifter," she whimpers, still holding him close. Baki forgets to breathe for a second. No. No, that's not- That's not possible.

He swallows past a lump in his throat and shuts his eyes against the tears threatening to form. "Well," he says, hating how his voice wavers, "That's- That's not right. Mom and Dad are both water-magics, you know? And so are you. My magic just... It's taking a while. But I'll have blue eyes, just like you guys, and... And everything will be alright."

"Yeah," she whispers, tucking her head under his chin.

She sounds convinced. 

He wishes he was, too.

[...]

It's decades before he ever tries anything with his magic. Nothing water-related ever shows up, and neither does anything else. There had been a few instances, like the first time with Mal, but nothing too major. 

He's thirty-four when he finally gets accepted into medical school. His whole life, he'd been wanting,  _needing_ , to prove that, no matter what magic he has, he can still  _help_ people. He refuses to be- To be a  _shifter_. Monsters like that don't save other angels. 

So he pours his heart and soul into school and training, and he falls almost all the way out of touch with his family. Last he heard, Mal was doing fine in her school, his mom and dad had split, and Toko had apparently become more of a permanent thing in the house.

So Baki limits his visits to the summer solstice, and that only. Mal, he sends letters to regularly. She writes back, but he can  _tell_ that there's a disconnect. 

It doesn't matter. His school, his work, is all that's important to him.

Other angels his age have groups and friends, but he sticks to himself. No need to let anyone close, no need to let anyone even have a  _chance_ to find out his... secret. No need to distract himself from school, either.

But the fear is what mostly keeps him alone. He can't dare to let anyone close enough to find out what he is. Because no matter how much he denies it, he  _knows_ that the small accidents aren't... Aren't any tricks, or hallucinations. They're real.

And he hates them.

[...]

The war starts when he's an apprentice in his first century. His tutor, an old healer named Kerikl, makes sure to keep him busy with patients and paperwork, claiming she's starting to get too old to do much. He has a feeling it's because she doesn't want him sent off to war.

Which he doesn't mind. He doesn't want to go out there as a soldier, anyway. He's too scared his emotions will set off his magic. And that- That just... That will be the death of him.

So, again, he throws himself into hs work, and doesn't let anything distract him. He manages to stay out of the war for a few years, but it's not long enough.

Kerikl interrupts his studying one night with a worried and weary face. "Baki," she says, standing at his door. He looks up, eyes drifting past her to the doorway of healing hut. Where he could make out the vague outlines of military uniforms.

He takes a steadying breath and looks up at her, trying to bite back any pleading in his voice when he asks, "Today?"

"I'm sorry, Baki," she says, "I tried..."

"I know." He glances down at the charts and notes on his desk. Clearing his throat, he stands, grabbing a hairtie from the desk and pulling his white hair back into a top knot. "I know, Kerikl."

They got out to the main room together. There are three angels standing there, military-gray wings folded back behind them. One of them, a young man probably around Baki's age, is looking around the small hut, where various injured people are laying on cots. 

"You're Baki, correct?" the one in front asks. She has cold yellow eyes, like the sun on the winter solstice. She holds out a hand and he shakes it. "I'm Major Merinick. You'll be among my flock, as the medic."

"Will I get a new set of wings for my troubles?" He feels Kerikl swat at his arm, but he couldn't give two fucks. This is exactly what he  _didn't_ want.

Merinick laughs and breaks the handshake. "Yes, of course. All medics must have the special wingset, or else the enemy may assume you're a soldier."

"Wouldn't that be lucky," he mutters. The other two snicker at him. Merinick smiles at him, but it's tight. Good. He doesn't like this anyway, so he's not going to make it easy. "Let me pack some things, and-"

"I'm sorry, but there's no reason to pack. Personal objects will just get lost, and you will be given anything you need for your position. We've come by to pick you up tonight. We're to be deployed tomorrow."

Something like a rock sinks in his stomach. No goodbyes? "Can I send letters?"

"Of course." She seems somewhat sympathetic. "Your immediate family should be compensated, any wife or husband will receive your checks, and-"

"No, it's just me," he says. "Right, then, let me get shoes on, and we can go."

Kerikl pulls him into a hug as he's struggling to tie his laces. "Be safe out there, my boy. Use your head. Don't get into any trouble."

"Considering this isn't optional," he mutters, glancing back, "I doubt I'll be able to stay out of trouble."

"Well," she says, like his mom used to when he pointed out something that contradicted her. "Stay safe. And try your best. You remember what I taught you, keep it in that noggin of yours." She knocks on his forehead, then nods.

It's not that hard to leave. He'll miss her, of course, but he plans on returning, once this war is over. He knows the east can't hold for too long; their military is good, and they're far stronger than any feral-angel. 

It shouldn't be long before he's back.

[...]

He's wrong.

The easterners  _wipe_ through their ranks as if they were just damp slips of paper. He races from body to body, stitching, cauterizing with his fire-rocks, putting honey on burns, and then wrapping gauze. He keeps a list in his head, for when he comes across a fallen soldier, or sees someone drop from an island, with no hope of breaking free of the fall before they hit the ocean. He keeps a list of numbers, of names, of the letters printed across the underside of wings for identification. He keeps the list going for weeks and weeks, until he loses track, until he runs out of ink and paper.

War smells like metal and honey, and he doesn't think he can do this.

It would be different if he was older, if he knew how to fight. But doctors don't  _fight_. They help people, they save lives. 

He drops down from the sky, wings shrieking, and lands in front of a soldier. Instantly, the easterner about to deal the last blow backs off. Nobody hurts the medics. You never knew if you'd need one, and if there's only an enemy medic would be around to save you...

The soldier his shaking, blindly reaching out for help. Baki reaches up and grips at his hand, putting it down. "Can you hear me?"

"Y-Yeah," he coughs, blearily opening one eye, blue meeting brown-red. "Hey, you-you're tha' one sarcastic a'hole Mer'nick recruited," he coughs and waves a hand. Dizzy, blood loss probably. Head wounds always bleed a lot. "I... I was there... Funny, huh?"

Baki only half-listen as he rips open the man's shirt. And he halts, blood going cold. It's bad. He's not going to survive.

Past all the blue and gore, Baki sees ribs poking out from his side, bones glistening with blood. He feels sick. But he's seen worse. 

For a second, though, it's too much. He blanks, and cant' remember what to do. "Wh-what's your name?" he asks, glancing towards the one open blue eye. Blue, but not water-magic. But bright blue, like a deep, clear sky during summer, or the ocean in its calmer states.

"Simon," the soldier grunts, and tries to sit up. Baki pushes him back down. "It tha' bad, innit?"

"Lay back down. I'll- I'll help you, don't worry." Simon's going to die. Baki doesn't know what to  _do_ , and-

He has to try. First, staunch the bleeding. He quickly reaches for the pack strapped to his front, pulling out gauze, folding it up and pressing it over the worst of the slashes. Damn these easterners and their horrible  _claws_.

Wait.

Baki freezes for a second, glancing up at Simon's face again. The angel's head is tilted back, staring up at the sky. Probably thinking it's the last he'll see of the sun.

Claws. Baki can-

But he's never tried on someone else, hell, he's barely used his magic on  _himself_ before.

Biting his tongue, trying to clear his frantic thoughts, Baki presses down, drawing a groan of pain. He tosses the bundle of bloody gauze away, and shuts his eyes. Tries reaching for magic, for the humming that his mother always told him about. He hears nothing, but after a moment, he...

He can  _feel_ the injuries. They're dim, against a bright- Bright blue light, flowing in patterns. Twisting and turning like veins, branching back and forth. He moves his hands up and feels the  _sparks_ of where the brain trails down to the spine, and then he feels the flashes of nerves, firing too-fast around the injuries. Okay, he can see it. He can see the dull, pulsing light of lungs, glowing and fading with each of Simon's pained, short breaths. His hearts, flashing away like emergency lights, unhealthy and too quick.

Slow it down is the first thought to enter his head. So he presses his hands down, and  _reaches_ , and snags the second heart. Presses against it until it slows. Simon's breathing evens out. Baki feels for the wounds, next, desperately trying to pull things back together. There's a puncture in his left lung, and he smooths it over.

His hands are trembling, now, but he presses on, deaf and blind to everything but the heartbeats and the light. He  _shifts_  the bones, hearing them crack and mend back into place and Simon  _screams_. Baki flinches back, and his concentration is momentarily broken.

That's when he notices the angel standing a couple of meters away. He's maybe _twice_ Baki's height, standing tall and easy, not slowed or tired from the fight one bit. His eyes are acid red-orange and huge ram horns curl from his head, back, and up over his ears. His tail whips back and forth, and he's tensed like a viper. Baki meets his eyes and realizes that the angel  _knows_.

Bile knots in his throat and stomach and Baki feels like shrinking back, like running, like taking flight and abandoning Simon here-

But then Simon lets out a pained whine, and his head falls back, and his grip on Baki's wrist is just ever-so-slightly stronger than before.

"Please," Baki whispers. 

The angel shifts in place, and Baki notices the gold over his armor. Royalty, maybe? He isn't sure, he can't tell the easterners apart. "Just- Let me help him."

The soldier looks down at Simon, orange eyes sharp, and they flicker  _pink_ for a second before he looks back at Baki. "I only see a medic and a wounded soldier," he speaks, accent folded harshly over his words, and Baki trembles. "Nothing more."

Then he snaps out fire-gold wings and launches himself back into the air, into the fight. Baki doesn't have time to thank him, he shuts his eyes, puts his hands back on Simon's chest, and mutters, "If you survive this, Simon, you owe me one."

"D-deal," Simon hisses, wincing back as Baki pulls together ripped muscles.

And when his torso is done and healed, Baki is shaking, and he feels  _sick_. He drops his hands and nearly slumps over. "Can't- Do your face, I'm sorry," he gasps.

"It's fine," he whispers, too tired to get up. Simon waves a hand at him, though, then drops it back down into the mud. "I... wanted some awesome scars anyway, huh? You can't- can't take away  _all_ of my fun."

"I'm not supposed to be fun," Baki mutters, and gathers himself enough to get to his feet. He helps Simon get up. Together, they get out of the middle of the field, into the shelter of a ruined building. Baki unzips his back, for a needle and thread. He knows he should just put gauze over the scars and get back  _out_ there, but he doubts he'll be able to fly. 

He spends the next few minutes stitching the gashes closed, ignoring Simon's hissing and flinching all the way. "When we get out of this," Simon mutters, stopping to his when Baki gets a bit too close to his eye, "You wanna go out sometime?"

Baki snorts. "I'm not looking for anyone right now."

"Well, later isn't right now."

"Hold still, or I fuck up your eye." It's enough to get Simon to fall quiet. Baki finishes up the stitches, tying them and then grabbing a rag and his canteen. He wets it, then hands it to Simon. "Clear only your eye. It didn't get hit, but I don't recommend fucking with the stitches until another few weeks."

Simon grumbles and starts wiping the blood from his eye. "Didn't know you were a healer?"

Baki pauses, but it's an honest question. Simon just- He assumed he was a  _magic_ healer. Baki glances to the left, where a shard of glass lay on the ground. He wonders if he could... A twitch, pull, and his eyes shine pink, the typical color for healers. Not his mud-red. "I didn't know, either," he mutters eventually.

Simon glances at him. "What, you did that all on instinct?"

"Pretty much. You got lucky."

Baki glances over when Simon lets out a breathless laugh. "Damn, I really do owe you one."

They flinch as someone shrieks as they fall from the sky. Baki jumps to his feet, but wavers, and watches in horror as they hit the edge of the island, roll, and topple off.

Simon clambers to his feet, grabbing Baki by the shoulder. "If you die, a lot more people will then, than if you were alive. You can't go back out there yet."

"I know," Baki whispers, wishing he'd caught the identification letters on the angel's wings. They're probably in the ocean by now.

"Alright, look," Simon says after a long moment, "You're one medic out of, what, twenty total? You can only do so much. And- And I mean, you saved me, so that's... gotta count for something, right?"

Baki glances over, and Simon tries to give him as much of a smile as he can, without pulling at the wounds. But he winces, and shakes his head, looking away. 

"Yeah," Baki eventually says, "That counts for something."

They're silent for a long, long time. The sun starts to slip under the islands, casting everything into shadows. Baki shivers, recalling the distant memories of bedtime stories and warnings. "Hey, you ever heard those shifter stories?"

"What, the ones told when we were kids? Yeah, Dad told me a few when I was really fucking little." Simon glances around. "Do you think the east has shifters, or-?"

"I lied, Simon," Baki says. "I'm no healer."

Simon goes very, very still. Then he lets out a long breath and says, "Well, stories are just stories."

Baki glances over to make eye contact. After a moment, Simon mutters, "And besides, in all those stories, the shifters only eat people. They don't do what you just did. So.. Yeah, the stories are just stories. And I've never, ever, seen a shifter in my life. If anyone asks, of course."

And he grins, something reassuring. "You wanna go out on that date with me, now?"

"Isn't that blackmailing?" Baki asks, keeping half an eye out to the fight. It's winding down, both sides dropping back and gathering their injured people. He needs to leave, but he can't ignore the shaking in his bones. 

"Depends," Simon mutters. "But- What about it?"

Baki snorts and shakes his head, taking a few steps away from their shelter. He raises his wings, the red catching his vision. He looks back towards Simon. "If we get out of this, sure."

"I'll take that as a yes."

Baki ignores him and jumps into the air, wings shoving down hard enough for him to take flight and get away from the island. From the sound of metal, Simon follows him.

As he lands on the small camp-island, he pushes thoughts of  _holy shit he knows_ and _what do I do now_ out of his head. He's got a job to do, and he'll be damned if anything gets in the way.


	2. wolf bite

_It's a nightmare_ , Baki tells himself, hands shaking as he shows the General test tubes and microscopes.  _Just a horrible, horrible nightmare. I'll wake up soon._

"See, sir, it must be in my blood," he says, "Healing magic mixing with my regular immune system, creating the necessary antibodies-"

Nathaniel peers into one of the microscopes, looking horrible unimpressed. Baki shakes as he takes the glass slide out and replaces it with an infected blood sample. "See the bacteria, there? That's the deathbell. It infects these cells, then releases bits of DNA so that the immune response is reduced, because instead of attacking the main problem, it spreads itself thin, to attack the entirety of it. I- I haven't figured out if anyone else is capable of making the antibodies, but-"

"And does it work?"

"Uh- Excuse me?" Belatedly, he adds, "Sir?" Because Nathaniel sends a sideways glare at him.

"The cure," Nathaniel says, standing up, looking down at Baki. He wants to shrink back. He  _knows_ the cure works. Simon wouldn't be _alive_ if it didn't work.  _He_ wouldn't be alive if it didn't work. "Uh- Yes. Yes, sir, it does."

"How do you know?" Nathaniel glances across the many tubes and samples and needles scattered around. Baki knows it works because he  _shifts_ the blood,  _shifts_ the bacteria into being benign, and then he  _shifts_ antibodies in his blood, and god it's  _painful_ , but-

"My- My friend, Simon. He got sick, and- Don't worry, he's in solitary right now, sir, I'm not letting him out until I know he doesn't carry it, but-"

"And are  _you_ immune?" There's some sort of curiosity in the General's voice, but Baki can't really put his finger on what it means. Whatever it is, it sends a sense of dread into his stomach, making him feel ill.

"No, sir, I'm not, but- Like I said, it must be my magic, I don't know many other healers that aren't, um, older. And you know how they are with deathbell, they don't try to _cure_ it, more less just keep an outbreak from happening. But, um." Nathaniel is peering over the microscopes again, pulling out the glass and dropping it on the counter to carelessly grab the other he'd previously been looking at. Baki flinches and gingerly picks up the infected disc, quickly inspecting it for cracks. "Well, um. I've more or less given the immune system a boost. Given it a way to gather its strength."

Simple words or he might piss Nathaniel off. Lord knows the General doesn't know _shit_ about any of the actual, medically correct details. But he can't say that, and he can't imply that Nathaniel doesn't know things like that, or it would be taken as a complete insult. And Baki rather likes his head attached to the rest of his body. "It's- It's not a vaccination, by any means, but- But it is a cure."

"Can I see him?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Your friend. I want to see how he's doing."

Baki doesn't suppress his shiver. "Um, yes, sir, of course. Right this way."

He leads him downstairs - well, it's more of a small tunnel dug into the ground. A wooden door makes up the entrance to the only solitary room. He raps on the door, then pushes open the peering hole. "Hey, Si? Um, General Nathaniel is here to see you."

Simon mutters a flurry of curses and there's the sound of him rustling around in the room. Baki can't see anything; it's too dark. He hasn't installed lights yet. 

He backs away from the door and says, "He's just getting ready."

Nathaniel heaves a sigh and glances at his wrist, one eyebrow raised. Baki swallows. After a moment, the General says, "I can afford to give you better funds for this healing hut. Better equipment, a bigger building... Would you like that?"

Hope pounds in his chest, echoing his hearts. "Oh, uh, yeah! It would be- It would be wonderful."

Funding? He'd patched together this hut just as Kerikl had hers. With time and every penny flying out the door to the construction workers. It had been  _expensive_. Hell, he's still in debt because of it-

"Good. This cure, then," he says, as Simon knocks on the door. Baki automatically goes to unlock it, but hesitates on the General's next words. "This cure is expensive."

What? No, it's actually somewhat simple to make- Sure, it takes a hell of a lot out of him, but to save people from this disease-

"It isn't a necessity. It's rare. Anyone who can't afford it, will  _not_ have it. You will report to me every single deathbell case you have. If I find out you haven't, I will cut your funding. If these people cannot afford this cure, you will not give it to them."

Baki refrais from shifting and lunging and ripping Nathaniel's  _eyes_ out. His grip tightens on the latch of the door. He takes a few steadying breaths, trying to figure out what to say. This- This sends people to their  _deaths_. This dangles the hope to survive above them, without hope of them ever reaching it. He can't just- He can't  _do_ that, he-

"I own this island," Nathaniel hisses, "I can so choose to take it out from under you."

Baki can't breathe for a second. He shakes and stares the General in the eye. Finally, he nods, lips pressed tight. 

Nathaniel smirks, and it's shark-like. Baki shoves the door open. There's a ringing in his ears, and he remains quiet as Nathaniel looks over his husband. Simon meets his eyes, worry in his gaze. Baki shakes his head, and turns back to Nathaniel as he bids them good luck.

"I'll send the funds your way shortly. This is the start of something great, doctor."

Later, after Nathaniel has gone, he tells Simon, and grips him tightly, despite not knowing if he's ill or not. He doesn't cry, necessarily, but knowing that, in the future, he will have to turn away the poor, the sickly that cannot afford to buy their life, that just _destroys him_. Simon seems to understand, at some basic level. He can at least grasp the loss of life, but Baki doesn't think he fully knows how horrible it is.

To have been working up to this breakthrough for his entire life, only to have to send people to their deaths when they don't have the money. It's against Baki's entire way of life, way of thinking. Against _everything_ he stands for. But it's either that or not be able to help people, period.

But they eventually have to part, and Simon has to stay there. In the dark, in solitary. After all, they can't risk any sort of outbreak.

That night, though, Baki sits on the edge of the island. He stares up at the sky and silently wonders if this is how he's going to have to live the rest of his life. So he drinks his sobs down with rum until everything is tipping sideways, until he has to scoot away from the edge, out of fear of falling off.

He somehow winds up inside, slumping at his desk, scribbling out notes. Details on how to make the cure, how to just  _twitch_ his magic just so, just enough to create the antibodies needed to defeat deathbell. He writes down how to override deathbell, knowing full well nobody else except for him will ever be able to recreate his cure.

[...]

Rumors of the wingsmiths eventually reach him. It's a month or so after they arrive that he finally meets them.

"You said your names were-?"

"Martin," the orange-eyed one says, but he stumbles. He glances to his right, where his brother is standing to the side, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, eyes continuously flicking towards the door. As if he's expecting someone to burst in and attack. "And my brother is Nitram."

"You're-"

"Twins, yes." It's probably a question they get a lot. But that's not what Baki was going to ask.

Because he's looking at them, and Martin has a spot of bright white-blue blood crusted in his messy hair, above his temple, and their face shape just _screams_ out at him with its familiarity. And Baki momentarily thinks back to when he first healed Simon, back to the eastern angel that had spared them.

Baki  _knows_.

Something in his stomach is twisting. He  _knows_ what they are. Hell, he has a strong guess as to  _who_ they are. He'd come to find out, much later down the line, that only royalty wears gold on their armor. But he owes that angel a  _life_ debt, doubled. He spared Baki's life, and in turn, Simon's life. And here's- Here's that angel's kin standing before him, back streaming with crusted blood from self-mutilation.

It makes him nervous. These two angels are probably only as old as he is, in their third century at the most, but he can just  _tell_ that they're- They're strong. And they're nervous.

Injured, grounded, and completely out of their normal comfort zone. He's treated plenty of injured angels, off and on the battlefield. He knows that anxious, injured people tend to think irrationally. Fear is even worse. And this sort of fear - the one borne from erasing their old life and starting anew - is so much worse. This means they've done something wrong. They have to be running from  _something_. Royalty or not, they're scared and in need of help. 

"And you said your wingports were- mutilated?"

"It's why we came here in the first place. A passing angel decided he didn't like us." Martin doesn't look away from Nitram. They make eye contact, and a conversation seems to pass. Finally, Nitram looks away pointedly, crossing his arms as if building up some sort of defensive wall. 

Martin scowls and turns back to Baki. "I have heard you do port surgeries. We have the ports, just... Can't do it ourselves."

Baki takes the box he holds out and glances down at them, at the strange pattern of the insides of them, and he's trying to tell himself that he's probably just- assuming. They're just drifters. That's why they have an accent, that's why they...

Okay, yeah, no, he can't fool himself like that.

He realizes, as he's looking at the ports, that the angels don't actually know what western ports look like. They are wingsmiths, and their craft beats no other, seeing as how expertly-made these ports are. The ports themselves are some strange mix of both cultures, and Baki doubts his ability to even implant them. He gingerly picks one of the four up and turns it over, surprised to find the tendrils are what he's used to. Perhaps that is just universal...

He glances back up at them, studying both of their faces. These two angels could get him killed if he does this. He should go report them- They're at  _war_ with the east, after all. This could get _him_ killed, put  _Simon_ in danger, hell even his _family_ could be in trouble for it-

But he looks up, and there's just a tinge of desperation in those tangerine eyes. So he takes a breath, and says, "Yeah, let me see what I can do."

[...]

He doesn't tell Simon.

He knows he should. He  _wants_ to, he really does. But he can't. If he does, Simon might let slip that there's something up with the two. And Baki is trying to repay his debt to that angel, not make it  _worse_. After all, an angel takes a life-debt seriously, be it for friend or foe. The royal man spared his and Simon's lives, so he'll spare Martin and Nitram's. A done deal.

It's paying up his end of it, somewhat. He feels as if it's incomplete, but...

Shaking his head, he spins his chair around and scoots to grab a new rack of empty tubes. He'd spent  _years_ perfecting the cure, but still, he hasn't managed to make one that doesn't have a half-life of an hour. He needs to manage to make multiple doses, and  _store_ them. of course, any sort of medicine has an expiration date, but- This is different. This isn't only a cure, it's simply a part of his magic, his blood, packed with as many shifting antibodies as possible. It's fairly simple, really, though Simon has stated on multiple occasions that he can't wrap his head around it.

Baki sighs and sets the tubes down on the table, wincing at the clatter they make. After a moment, he rubs over his eyes and returns to his note, automatically shifting an extra arm at each elbow to start filling two tubes. With a blink, he shifts his eyes to better see each individual cell, focusing on how they swirl and dance about, little flashing, aggressive lights. He plucks at them accordingly, feeling his magic start to tire out. He'd been at it for the better part of four hours, now, and he knows he'll need a break soon.

There's a knock at the door, shattering his focus. He hurriedly folds his extra arms back in, and accidentally makes the cure-in-process turn sour. 

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair. "What, Si?"

Simon cautiously opens the door. "Nothing's going to explode, right?" he asks, a customary greeting for whenever he barges in on Baki unannounced. 

"Not anymore." A rehearsed answer; Simon has a bad habit of interrupting his experiments. "What's up?"

"Well, see," Simon starts, opening the door enough to lean in. "I've invited some friends over for dinner tonight. They're bringing the ingredients, so it won't cut into our budget or anything. Figured you'd wanna wash up before they arrive?"

"And who are they?" Baki asks, starting the process of disposing of the waste of the cure experiments. 

"Oh, I actually met them the other day in the shops. They seemed kinda lost; apparently, they're a couple of drifters that've recently decided to tag into the west. I think you'll like them."

Suspicion already rising, Baki swallows back a retort of,  _Oh, god, please don't tell me they're twins._ "Their names, Si?"

"I, uh..." Simon hesitates. "I think, um, like, well. Well, I kind of don't remember. But, y'know, figured you could do with some more friends."

"So you invited two people you don't know over for dinner?" Already deciding Baki should probably skip town for the night, he pulls his gloves off and finally walks past Simon, out to the min living area. "Simon, I don't-"

There's a somewhat tentative knock at the door. Baki mentally groans and rubs the corners of his eyes. "Right, okay. I'll go wash up really quickly, you greet the guests. And next time, Simon, talk to me before inviting company over."

Simon huffs and goes to answer the door. Baki hurries to the washroom, tidying up quickly. Really, nothing needs to be done, but he does  _not_ want to go out there and confirm his suspicions. But those two voices, both with accents, make his hopes die pretty quickly.

When he goes back out, the two seem startled to see him. Nitram- or was it Martin? - is firing up the stove and already putting a pot and two pans down. Martin, or, uh, maybe Nitram, is standing around somewhat awkwardly as Simon tries to figure out what to do or say.

Wonderful. 

"What are you cooking?" Baki asks, deciding to get a few deck of cards. He opens the closet as the twin at the stove says something that Baki doesn't recognize. He hears Simon reply but doesn't pay it much mind. Hm... No need to bring out the Ka Lua table; they probably don't know how to play. But Martin - or Nitram? - catches sight of it. "Oh, you know how to play?" he asks, finally taking a seat at the table. Baki glances back to find Simon passing him a cigar.

He almost remarks on the whole rule of not smoking in the house but decides he can deal with a little bit of smoke tonight. "Yeah. Do you?"

"Used to love that game as a kid." He lights the cigar with a snap and Simon visibly blanches at him. Martin - or, Nitram - seems to remember himself and glances at his brother. They share a look and then things continue on. "Do you have all the tiles?"

"Probably." Baki pulls out the Ka Lua table and starts setting it up in the living area, on top of the coffee table. It'll probably be a nice after-dinner game, and then he can send them on their way. Perfect. Depending on how long it takes to make the food, and then eat, they should be gone with an hour, two at tops.

Really, he's sure they're nice and all, but he doesn't feel like being involved with them too much. That could just get  _messy_ if their secret ever were to come out. He doesn't want him or Simon getting caught in the crossfire of  _that_.

Eventually, he does grab the cards and settles down at the table. Martin- Or, Nitram- Hell, whoever is cooking- Sits down to play a couple of hands with them, when he can leave the pans to simmer and the pots to boil, but mostly stays out of the games. After a few rounds, Simon gets up to pour some wine for the four of them, and Baki finds that he starts enjoying the night, once the awkwardness finally disperses. It's still an undercurrent in the silences and conversation, and it's made worse by the twins not really sharing much information with either of them, but it's alright for the most part.

And the food is  _delicious_ , really. Baki's never had anything like it. It's spicy as all hell, though. The twins don't seem to care, so it isn't that Martin- or, uh, well it's probably Martin, Baki thinks- It isn't that he accidentally put too much in. Simon goes through four glasses of water just while eating, then more wine than any sane angel should drink with guests over.

The good mood only grows when they start playing Ku Lua. Simon doesn't know how to play. All the rules Baki knows, the twins disagree on. It's not  _this_ tile that goes on  _these_ spaces, it's this  _other_ tile. No, no, that one can't go three spaces, only one sideways and another forward. No, it can't go backward, that's only for the nightshade tiles- Which they call solankyeon, which is  _definitely_ not correct. Regardless, they eventually decide to play by whatever the hell rules they know, and  _Simon_ , who has never played before, winds up winning.

Eventually, though, the night is waning into the early hours, and Nitram and Martin stumble up and start to give their goodbyes. Somewhat worried - for drunk flying will only result in more patients at the hospital - Baki offers them the warp, but they decline.

"It was nice," Nitram-or-Martin says, swaying, somewhat leaning on his brother. He is much drunker than the other, whichever twin he is, and it makes his accent that much worse. They really should work on that, if they're to live here. Baki  _almost_ says something but remembers to hold his tongue just in time. "Was lotta fun, really, thanks'y for, uh, invitin' us."

"Was no problem, no problem, nu-uh," Simon slurs, half-lying on the table, with a tile pushing his cheek up strangely, making one eye squint. "Come by 'gain, really, haven't seen 'aki laugh like that since, uh..."

He trails off and Baki swats him in the shoulder.  He stands, only swaying slightly, for he and Martin-or-Nitram were the ones to drink less. The other twin, whose red eyes can't really stay focused on one thing, nods and promise to cook for them again. He leads the two of them outside, and says his final goodbye, and again extends the invitation for another night. 

After he closes the door, he heads to the window, watching with slight concern as Martin-or-Nitram helps the other's wings on. 

He and Simon sit in silence for a long time, a cold sort of feeling finally coming into the room, as if swept in, as if following the twin's presences. 

"Y'know," Simon mutters into the Ku Lua table, "Never did catch 'er names."

"Nitram and Martin," Baki says after a moment, "Though I can't, uh, tell ya which is which."

"Huh," Simon mumbles, "Strange."

"Yeah," Baki says quietly, closing the curtain as they lift off into the air, if rather unsteadily, "They're pretty strange."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, baki is one of my favorite characters. this all takes place before the main series starts, obviously. hope you enjoyed


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